To Grandmother’s House We Go

 Three years ago, my husband lost his job. I tried to find work, but there
weren't any jobs in the area. I couldn't even find work in a fast food
restaurant. We lived on our savings and ran our credit cards up to the limit
just to pay the utility bills and put food on the table. Finally in
desperation, I asked my mother if we could move into her house until we got
on our feet. She was delighted to help. My mother has a large ranch in the
rolling wooded hills about forty miles northwest of San Antonio and has
plenty of room. Within a few weeks, I managed to find a job as an executive
secretary for a small law firm in town, but my husband Tom was still unable
to find work. At first he went out every day to go to the temp agencies and
go on interviews, but as time went on he went out to look for work less and
less frequently. He just sat at home with a bottle of beer constantly in
hand, watching cartoons on television during the weekdays and sports on
weekends. By mid-afternoon, he'd be falling down drunk. If anyone said
anything to him about a job prospect after he'd been drinking, he'd
 explode
and tell them how hopeless it was to try.
        My mother, Ann, was retired and who normally spent her time with her
hobbies, was forced to spend more and more of her day picking up after him.
One day, after he had trashed the living room with empty chip bags and beer
bottles, she became angry and told him he had to get a job. Rather then
answer her, he retreated into the bedroom with his chips and beer. When I
came home my mother was fuming. 'That man of yours has to get a job!,'
 she
told me.
        I apologized for his behavior and told her I'd have a talk with him. I
 went
to the bedroom and found him passed out on the bed.  I shook him awake and
said, 'Tom, my mother and I have had enough. If you're going to live
 here,
you've got to quit drinking and get a job. I want you to go out tomorrow
 and
find some work. I don't care what you do, but I want you to have a job by
tomorrow night!'
        He told me he was sorry and that he would find work the next day. The next
morning Tom refused to get out of bed. 'I'm sick, Mary. I can't look
 for
work today,' he whined.
        When I asked him what was wrong, he told me his stomach hurt and he ached
all over. He said he couldn't move. I was livid. I marched down to my
 mother
and asked her what to do. She said, 'If he's sick, I'll take him to
 the
doctor. Do you remember Dr. Hinton? I used to be his nurse before I retired.
I'll take him to Dr. Hinton and we'll see what he has to say. Don't
 worry
about the cost, I'll take care of everything. You go to work. I'll call
 Dr.
Hinton and see if he'll see Tom this morning. Don't worry, I'll see
 that Tom
gets to the doctor.'
        I left to go to work Friday morning knowing that Mother would take care of
everything. The office closed early on Friday and I'd be home before one
o'clock. When I got home Friday afternoon, my mother was tight-lipped and
obviously extremely angry.  She called me into her bedroom and said, 'Mary
,
Tom's a fake! Dr. Hinton couldn't find anything wrong with him. Tom's
 acting
just like a five year old who doesn't want to go to school. He's nothing
more than an overgrown child! I've had enough. If you can't do something
with him, I will!'
        'Where is he?,' I asked angrily.
        'He's up in your bedroom. He's supposed to be sleeping, but I think
 he's
really hiding under the covers. For two cents, I'd go up there, put him
across my knees and give him a spanking!'
        I went up to the bedroom, threw open the door and demanded, 'Dr. Hinton
says there's nothing wrong with you! What do you have to say for
 yourself?'
        'I'm sick!,' came the muffled reply from under the covers.
        'I want to see your face when I'm talking to you,' I said, '...take
 those
covers off your head immediately!'
        'I can't. Go away!,' he said in a hoarse voice. I could see he was
 holding
the covers over his head with both hands.
        I stalked over to the head of the bed and yanked the covers out of his
hands with one motion. Immediately he put his hands up to cover his face.
        'Let me see your face,' I said softly with an irritated edge to my
 voice.
        He lowered his hands slowly and I saw what he'd been hiding. He had been
crying. My thirty-year-old husband was hiding under the covers and crying
like a baby! Tears ran down his face and his nose ran like a small child's
.
I was so angry I couldn't contain myself. 'Stop that!,' I said.
        He just sat there and blubbered incoherently. I slapped him hard across the
face and said, 'Get out of that bed now!' I pulled him from the bed and
said, 'If you don't pull yourself together and act like a man, I'm
 going to
throw you out of the house!'
        'Please, please Mary. Please don't do this to me,' he sniveled.
        I answered him by raising my hand to slap him again but was stopped the
sound of my mother's sharp intake of breath behind me. Tom hid his face in
his hands and cowered in front of me.
        'Well? .....Well?,' I demanded, tapping my foot impatiently.
        'Mary!....Mary, I need to talk to you,' came my mother's voice behind
 me.
        I turned and said, 'We're busy right now, mother. Can I talk to you
 later?'
        My mother said, 'Mary, look down at his crotch.' She was pointing to a
yellow strain that was rapidly spreading  down the front of his pajama
 bottoms.
        I was stunned. Tom was wetting his pants! Mother walked over to Tom and
said, 'Mary, I'll take care of this.' She led him to the bathroom and
 a few
minutes later I heard the sound of water running in the bathtub. Mother
reappeared with Tom's wet clothes in her hand and said tersely, 'I'm
 going
to put these in the laundry. We have to talk. I put Tom in the bathtub.
He'll be okay for a few minutes.'
        When she returned she sat down on the bed and said, 'Mary come over and
 sit
down beside me. We have to talk about Tom.' I was still in shock, I nodded
dumbly and sat down beside her. 'Mary,' she said, 'Tom's regressed.
 He's
nothing more than a child in the state he's in. There's no point to
 getting
angry with him and yelling at him. He can't help what he does. The
 question
is now, what do you want to do about it? Do you want him hospitalized? We
might be able to get him into a state hospital but it won't be very nice
 for
him. They don't have the money to give him anything but custodial care.
 He's
not covered by health insurance and you don't have a health plan where you
work. I certainly can't afford to pay for his hospitalization. Moreover,
 he
doesn't act like he's disoriented or hallucinating. I'm not sure the
 state
would accept him as a patient. I think he's just emotionally weak. He
doesn't want to deal with being an adult anymore. This is just his way of
manipulating you into letting him out of his marital responsibilities. So
I'm asking you, what do you want to do?'
        I sat staring ahead at the wall. I couldn't say anything. What could I
 say
to her? I had married a man who was a big baby. I had no idea what to do. I
looked at her and said, 'Mother, when I married him he was a man. Now look
at him. What do you think I should do?'
        My mother smiled and said with a twinkle in her eyes, 'Mary, I think you
should give him what he wants.  If he wants to be a child, let him.'
        'Whaaaat?,' I said in surprise. 'Mother! You can't mean that!'
        'Mary,' her mother said gently, 'most men are overgrown children.
 Their
mothers and wives have to prod them to make them grow up. Tom's simply
 less
grown up than other men. Tom's forgotten what it's like to be a little
 boy.
He thinks he can sit around and do as he pleases while everyone else has to
work. I think you should give him what he wants. I think you should treat
him like a little boy. Exactly like a little boy!'
        'Mother I can't believe you just said that! Do you mean I should let
 him
continue to do as he wants? He'll never get a job! Why should he? He'll
spend his days getting drunk and watching cartoons while we do all the
 work!'
        Her mother shook her head and said, 'That's not quite what I had in
 mind.
Here's what I think we should do.'
        My mother began explaining her plan to me and within minutes I had started
to giggle. 'Tom's not going to like this,' I told her happily.
        'Well,' my mother said cautiously, 'if self-respect and pride won't
 make
him act like a man, maybe he can be humilated into it.'
        I went into the bathroom and got Tom out of the tub, dried him off and
dressed him in a bathrobe. He was shocked that I was still talking to him,
much less helping him in the bathroom and dressing him. I thought I could
see the faint glimmer of a smile at the corners of his lips. 'Ah-ha!,' I
said to myself when I saw his expression, ' ...so you are faking! Well, if
this is what you want, we'll see that you get it.'
        I held him by the hand and led him down the hall into the living room with
a spare beach towel in my other hand. Mother had already gotten a large
plastic garbage bag and slipped it over the cushion of his favorite tv
chair. I arranged the beach towel on top of the plastic bag and motioned for
him to sit down.
        'Tom,' I began, ' Mother and I have decided not to make you go out
 and get
a job. If your going to act like this, you can stay home. No one is going to
ask you to do any work around here, either. You'll have the same
responsibilities that a small child would be given. In other words, none.
We'll see you get fed, bathed, dressed, and taken care of, like you were
when you were a little boy. You can take naps whenever you want to. In
return all I ask of you is to do as we say. Precisely what we say. If you
can't do that you'll have to leave. Immediately! You can take the
 clothes on
your back and nothing else! Is that clear? Now what do you want to do? Will
you stay under those conditions or are you going to leave? I want your
answer now!'
        Tom hung his head and mumbled, 'Stay...I want to stay.'
        'Are you sure? Once you've made up your mind there's no turning back.
 Do
you agree to obey Mother and me?,' I asked with a firm tone.
        'Ye...Yes, I'll obey,' he said quietly.
        'Good, the chair cushion has been waterproofed with a plastic bag. I put
 a
towel on the chair for you to sit on in case you have another 'accident'
. I
don't want you wandering around the house and making a puddle on the
 carpet.
I want you stay there like a good little boy and watch cartoons until Mommy
and Nanna get back. Do you understand? Mommy's going shopping and wants
 you
to stay in that chair until she gets back.' ,' I told him with a grin.
        'Mommy???,' he said questioningly.
        'Yes, Mommy!!,' I told him. 'From now on you call me 'Mommy' and
 my Mother
'Nanna'. Is that understood? I told you you're going to be treated
 like
you're a little boy again. I'm going to be your Mommy from now on. When
Mommy's at work, Nanna will take care of you. Are you sure you want to do
this? There's the door! It's your last chance!'
        He shook his head 'no' and I picked up my purse and said, 'Tommy had
 better
be a good boy while we're gone. If Tommy's naughty, Mommy will spank!!
'
        I turned on my heel and walked out of the room, leaving him to think about
what we were about to do to him. 'If he has any guts at all, he'll leave
before we get back,' I thought soberly, '..if not, he'll get just what
 he
deserves.'
        When we got home we found him exactly where we had left him; sitting in his
chair watching cartoons.  We unpacked the bags and then went back outside to
unload the pickup. It took us some time as we had bought furniture for the
spare bedroom. When we finished bring in the furniture I went to the living
room, put out my hand to take his and said, 'Come on, Honey. It's time
 to
get dressed.'
        I led him to the spare bedroom and stopped at the threshold, saying,
'Tommy, this is your new bedroom. You'll be sleeping in this room now.
 Nanna
and I will move your things in here after I get you dressed. Then it will be
time for your nap. Come on now, Nanna's waiting for us.'
        I opened the door and there stood my Mother at the foot of the bed. A
disassembled bed frame leaned against the wall, partially covered by another
mattress.  The opposite wall had unassembled furniture parts lying on the
floor next to it. She had stripped off all the bedclothes from the bed and
temporarily replaced it with a waterproof, plastic mattress cover. I began
to help him off with his robe when he remembered he was naked under the
robe. 'I can't take this off,' he said, looking at my Mother,
 '...she's in
here.'
         'Don't be foolish, little boys don't have a sense of modesty!' I
 said,
frowning in irritation. 
        I jerked the robe from his shoulders and told him, 'Now lay down on that
bed with your tummy up, baby!' 
        He shivered and did as he was told. Mother bent down and picked up a folded
object from beneath the bed. 'Tommy,' I told him, bend your knees and
 grab
them with your hands. Bring them up to your chest. Farther. That's it.
That's a good boy. Now hold on tight.'
        Mother spread a plastic covered pad underneath his buttocks and pushed on
the soles of his feet, forcing him to rock back on his shoulders and expose
the rest of his bottom. She scooted the pad farther up and said, 'Okay,
Tommy. You can straighten your legs now. There you go. Now spread your legs
apart.' she pulled the pad up between his legs and revealed the pad for
 what
it was; an adult disposable diaper. She taped him into the diaper quickly
and said, 'There now, Tommy. That wasn't so bad. Was it?'
        'Wha.....Wa..What...ha..have..you..do..done to me?,' he stammered.
        I reached back and slapped him hard across the face saying, 'That's for
being rude, little boy! Her name is Nanna! Say her name, Tommy!'
        His voice dropped low and he said, 'Nanna, what did you put on me?' He
looked at me, gulped and added, 'Please?'
        She looked down at him, smiled sweetly and said, 'I just put clean dydees
on you, sweetiepie.'
        He looked up at her querulously and asked, 'Diapers, Nanna? I don't
 need to
wear diapers. I know how to use the toilet.'
        'Do you, honeybunch? Then how do you explain wetting your PJ's this
morning? No, sweetie. You're too young to be potty-trained. I can't have
 you
going pee-pee all over my carpets. Mommy will potty-train you when you're
ready. Until then, you'll wear dydees.'
        He turned his head to me, gave me a look of utter desperation and began to
plead, 'Mommy....'
        I cut him off saying, 'Tommy, there's nothing to talk about, so don't
 ask.
You had your chance to walk out and you decided to stay. Your behavior has
told us you've forgotten your potty-training. Mommy will take care of that
when she thinks you're ready. Until then, the toilet's off limits to
 you!
You'll use your dydee if you need to pee-pee or poo-poo! Do you
 understand,
baby?'
        He nodded and I continued, 'I told you you'll be treated like when you
 were
little. Do you remember what it was like to be a one-year-old, Tommy?'
        He shook his head 'no' and I said, 'That's alright, Tommy. Mommy
 knows how
to take care of a one-year-old. Now open your mouth and take out your
dentures. Good. Now hand them to Mommy. That's a good baby!'
        I put his dentures in my pocket and said, 'Mommy will give these back to
you when you need them. For now, Mommy doesn't want you to have anything
 in
your mouth that you might choke on. Now sit up, honey. Mommy will take you
to the living room so you can watch your cartoons. Mommy and Nanna will get
Tommy's nursery ready for his nappy-poo!'
        As I held his hand and led him back into the living room, I thought about
his dentures. He really didn't deserve to have them, I thought. Four years
ago, he had to have his teeth removed because his drinking and poor dental
hygiene had given him gingivitis. 'He won't be needing his teeth to eat
 what
I'm going to serve him!,' I thought with a sneer.
        I sat him down in the middle of the living room floor and said, 'Sit
 right
there, Tommy. Mommy will be back in a minute.' I returned with a folding,
floorless playpen and proceeded to set it up around him. He looked at me
with a betrayed expression on his face as I completed the ring around him. I
reached in my top pocket and took out a pacifier and said, 'Open your
 mouth,
Honey. Mommy has something for you.'
        Tom opened his mouth sheepishly and I popped in the pacifier. He snapped
his jaw shut in surprise and I said, 'Mommy wants you to suck on your
Binkie, baby. You need to build up the muscles in your cheeks. You're
 going
to need them!'
        I turned on the tv, set it to his favorite channel and went to the kitchen.
I returned carrying a large, brown Teddy bear.  'Here you go, Tommy,' I
 told
him as I put the Teddy bear down beside him in the playpen. 'Mommy bought
 it
to keep you company in your playpen while she's busy working around the
 house.'
        I left the room and went to Tom's room to help my Mother redecorate it
 for
his use. Two hours later, we were almost finished. I stopped work and went
to the kitchen to make what would soon become Tom's regular afternoon
bottle. Of course, not wanting to leave anything to chance, I crushed a
half-dozen baby laxatives and added it to the baby formula. After a moments
consideration, I decided to add some prophylactic medications in addition to
what I put in his formula; I was certain that Tom's frustrating afternoon
would keep him from taking a nap when I put him to bed. I thought I would
give him a large dose of  Benadril elixir, enough for about 200mg worth of
antihistamine, before I gave him his bottle. That should be enough to put
him out like a light for the rest of the afternoon. I also decided to give
him a powerful diuretic; the medication would make him thirsty when he woke
up and the large amount of urine it produced would force him to pee in his
diaper later on tonight. The diuretic would have another bonus; the foul
taste of the diuretic would make him want to drink anything, even baby
formula, to get the taste out of his mouth. I took a bottle of Benadril and
added the powder from a half-dozen capsules of a weight-reducing diuretic to
the liquid and shook it well. Then I measured five tablespoons of elixir
into a small glass and brought it to him. I handed him the glass and said,
'Drink it baby. Mommy wants to see Tommy make a happy glass! Drink it all
down!'
        Tom took the glass and drained it at a gulp, shuddering as the foul taste
filled his mouth. I gave him his bottle and said, 'That's Mommy's good
 baby!
Here, here's a bottle of formula to wash it down. You can take your time
with this. Go on baby, put the nipple in your mouth! There you go! That's
Mommy's good boy! Mommy's still working in your room and won't be
 finished
for another hour. She expects to see that you've finished your ba-ba by
 then.'
        I tussled his hair playfully and went back to the bedroom to work. An hour
later, I came out to get him for his nap and was not surprised to find him
sleeping in his playpen with his empty baby bottle beside him. When I saw
him lying there on the floor with his mouth open and drool running down his
chin in a state of complete relaxation, I realized just how infantile he
looked while he slept. I wondered how I had missed it before. Mother was
right, men are only big babies! I opened the playpen and helped him to his
feet. He swayed uncertainly and held onto my hand tightly as I led him back
to his new room.
        When he saw what we had done to the room, he stood there at the doorway in
shock. The original bed and bedsprings were gone. The corner of the room
next to the door was occupied by a giant rocking chair; big enough for both
Tom and me to sit in, with a baby blanket draped over the back of the chair.
The center of the room was occupied by a six-foot-long changing table and
one wall had a large, adult sized crib standing against it. We had had the
dickens of a time getting them set up on such short notice. If mother hadn
't
had the luck to see the advertisement for used hospital equipment in the
phone book and called to see what they had, we'd have never known that
 such
things existed. The rest of the room was decorated like any baby's
 nursery;
a mobile hung over the crib and a cute border ran along the walls at waist
height. We had managed to find matching curtains for the windows and had put
nursery appliqus on the walls over the border. The room was simply
 darling!
With the exception of the oversized furniture, it looked like the nursery I
had always fantasized about creating for my first child. Too bad my first
baby had to be my husband!

My Mother stood at the side of the crib and opened the rail as we
approached. Tom began to panic when he realised that the crib was meant for
him. 'Please....Please no....please don't put me in there....I'm not a
 b..baby!'
        'Hush, Tommy. Of course you're getting in your crib, it's time for
 baby to
go nite-nite!,'  I told him. He held back as I tried to chivvy him into
 the
crib. 'If you don't get in your crib this instant, little boy, Mommy is
going to spank!'
        He looked at me mournfully and refused to budge. I exploded, saying,
'That's it! You're getting a spanking!'
        I hauled him over to the rocking chair and sat down suddenly, drawing him
down to the level of my lap. He tried to straighten up and I yelled,
'Mother, I need your help!! Would you get me the hair brush on the
 dresser? '
         She came over and tripped him, causing him to fall helplessly over my lap.
Then she picked up his feet and held them under one arm, effectively
immobilizing him. I took the hair brush from my Mother's free hand and
 began
to spank him through his diaper. He moaned and squirmed, but was unable to
free himself. His moans rapidly changed into whimpers, then full fledged
crying. I continued to hit him as hard as I could, determined to make an
impression on him. He'd think twice about disobeying Mommy again!! 'Are
 you
going to be a good boy?,' I demanded.
        He screamed, 'Yes,...yes Mommy I'll be a good boy! Pleaaase don't
 spank me
anymore...I'll be good! I promise!'
        His bawling soon turned into wails and incoherent blubbering. 'Are you
going to take your nap in your crib like Mommy told you?'
        Tom stopped crying and made a half-burping sound as if he had swallowed his
tongue. He was sniffling and gasping hysterically, so I waited for him to
calm down before hitting him again. When he recovered, he nodded vigorously
in assent, apparently he was too terrified to speak. Abruptly, he began
keening a piteous whimper. I nodded to Mother to let his feet down and they
hit the floor with a thud. Mother came over and helped him off my lap and
onto his feet. When he stood up I realized his diaper was sagging on his
hips. He had wet his diaper!! No wonder he had started whimpering! I watched
in fascination as his diaper continued to droop lower and lower between his
legs. The weight of his pee was clearly what was slowly pulling his diaper
off his buttocks. 'The diuretic was really doing it's job,' I thought,
'...he must have peed a half-quart.' He blushed crimson as he saw me
 staring
at his soggy diaper. Then it occurred to me, he must be still wetting his
diaper! 
        'Did Tommy wet his dydee?,' I asked him.
        He stared down at the floor shamefaced and said in a meek voice, 'Yes,
 Mommy.'
        'Mommy's not going to change Tommy's dydee right now. He's been a
 bad boy.
Tommy can take his nap in a wet dydee. If Tommy's good and goes to sleep
right away, Mommy will change his dydee when he wakes up!'
        Tom shoulders hunched over in defeat and he nodded in agreement. I walked
him over to the crib and tucked him into his new bed. He clutched my hand to
his chest like a little boy terrified of the dark. I smoothed the hair on
his forehead with the palm of my hand and told him, 'There, there little
one. It's alright. Mommy's not mad at you anymore. Be a good boy and go
 to
sleep. Close your eyes, Honey.' I was amazed at his performance, in less
than a day he had regressed into a small child. What would he be like in a
 week?
        Four hours later, I heard the sound of loud crying from the nursery. I ran
in to discover the room stunk of feces. He had pooped in his dydees! He
stood at the rail of the crib screaming his frustration like a toddler. He
face was red and puffy and tears ran down his face. I walked up to the side
of the crib and said, 'Tommy be quiet or Mommy will spank you in your
 dirty
dydees!!!' 
        He paused in his wailing and whimpered, 'I'll....I'll leave
 immediately,
just let me out of here. I'll give you a divorce if you want it, but
 please
let me out!'
        I laughed and said, 'Poor Tommy, you're just upset because you pooped
 in
your dydee! Be quiet and Mommy will change you.'
        He hung his head miserably and said softly, 'Please, Mommy. I'll change
 it
myself if you'll just let me out of here. Pleaase!!'
        I shook my head 'no' and said, 'I can't let you go Tommy. You know
 that.
Look at you, you're not even potty-trained. You told me yourself that you
were sick. '
        'I'm not sick. I just lied to get you to leave me alone about going to
 look
for work,' he whined.
        'And what about your wet PJ's, how did that happen?'
        He blushed hotly and said in an embarrassed voice, 'You didn't believe
 me
when I said I was sick. You hit me! I just couldn't go to work. I had to
 do
something to get you to let me stay home!'
        'Do you mean it was deliberate? You wet your PJ's just to keep from
 looking
for work?'
        He answered in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, 'Yes, I'm sorry
 now
I did it. Please let me go. I'll get out of your life. You never have to
 see
me again. Only, please let me out now.'
        I looked down my nose at him and said, 'Do you realize what an infantile
thing that was to do? You wet yourself because you didn't want to work.
 I'm
sorry, Honey, but I can see now that Mother was right to insist that I put
you in diapers. You're an infant in a man's body. When I married you I
promised to love and take care of you 'for better or for worse' and I
 intend
to keep my promise. It's obvious you need someone to take care of you. No,
Honey. I'm not going to let you go. You had your chance to leave and you
refused. This is your home now and I'm your Mommy! Good mommies don't
 let
their babies leave home until they've matured enough to take care of
themselves.'
        He began to cry again and I said, 'Come on Tommy. Let's get you cleaned
 up.
Move away from the crib rail so you can come out when I open the side of the
crib.'
        I got him out of the crib and made him lie down on the changing table. I
took the safety strap that had been hidden under the table and fastened it
over his waist, cinched it down tight, then hooked the free end on a cleat
under table. 'You stay right there, baby. Mommy will be right back in a
 few
minutes.'
        I left to get my Mother and tell her what he had done. When we came back we
found him struggling to escape from the restraining strap. I shook my finger
in his face and said, 'Naughty, naughty, baby! Does baby want another
spanking?'
        He quieted and Mother and I had him in clean diapers in a jiffy. I sprayed
the room with nursery freshener, then opened the window to let the room air
out before letting him loose from the table. While I was unstrapping him,
she went to the head of the changing table and pinched his cheek, saying,
'Your Mommy told me how you lied when you told us you were sick. That was
very naughty of you. You'll have to be especially good to make up for how
wayward you've been. Do you understand Nanna?'
        He nodded sullenly and Mother continued, 'I think the reason you got into
trouble was that you were insecure. Isn't that right, sweetiepie? Nanna
knows something that makes little boys feel cared for and happy. You need to
suck your thumb! Take your thumb and put it in your mouth. Now, Tommy or
Nanna will spank. That's a good boy! Suck on it, sweetie! Nanna wants to
 see
those muscles working in your cheeks. There you go. That wasn't so hard,
 was
it? Let Nanna help you off the table. Let's go to the kitchen, Honeybunch.
It's time for your dinner. Mommy has a nice dinner waiting for you.'
        We led him into the kitchen and sat him down in what looked like a plastic
upholstered easy chair with straps at the seat sides and front. I leaned
over and pulled the front strap up between his legs, threaded the side strap
though the loop in the front strap and fastened it to the strap on the other
side. I tested the straps, the tightened them again. The straps completely
immobilized him; he was unable to move down because of the strap between his
legs and the waist belt prevented him from moving up. Then I took a tray
that had been sitting behind the chair and locked it into sockets on the
arms of the chair. The chair had originally been designed as an activity
chair for geriatric patients, but it worked very well as a feeding chair.
Mother tied a large geriatric feeding bib around his neck and I pulled out a
chair to sit in front of him. When he saw what I intended to feed him, he
positively panicked! 'No, Mommy! No! Please don't make me eat that! I'
ll
throw up!,' he told me desperately.
        Apparently the thought of pured mixed vegetables made him sick. I smiled
as I ladled large spoonfuls into his mouth. When he spit it up, I scraped it
off his chin and fed it to him again. After he finished two jars of
vegetables, I fed him two jars of pured chicken dinner. He drooled and
 his
stomach heaved several times, but he managed to keep it down. I don't
 think
he wanted to eat the chicken a second time. For dessert, I gave him stewed
prunes. Four jars. I didn't want my baby to get constipated. When he had
finished eating I gave him his bottle of formula. Actually, I made him drink
four bottles before I let him out of the feeding chair. His tummy visibly
bulged with baby food and formula! I patted his back to bubble him and he
was mortified when this produced a humiliatingly large burp!
        I held his hand and led him into the living room after dinner. Mother and I
sat on the couch while he sat on the floor. When he tried to stand up and
move to the couch I was across the room in a flash! I slapped his fanny and
told him that he wasn't to try to stand or walk unless Mother or I was
 there
to hold his hand. He was to crawl on the floor if he wanted to go anywhere
by himself. He sank to his knees in front of me and started to weep. I
patted the top of his head and told him that I wasn't mad at him, but I
expected him to act like the baby he really was.
        He crawled to the couch and sat down in front to watch tv with us. Mother
made him suck his thumb the entire time he sat there. Later on in the
evening, I got up to make him a bottle of formula before we put him to bed.
He followed me into the kitchen, creeping on his hands and knees. I heard a
low moan behind me as I was pouring his formula into his bottle and turned
to see him crouched red-faced on the floor. Something was happening to him!
I bent down and asked, 'What's wrong, Honey? Are you okay?' He moaned
 again
and the smell hit me. He was pooping in his diaper right in front of me! I
laughed and said, 'Is Mommy's baby making a poopy? That's okay, Honey.
 Make
as big a mess as you need to in your dydee. Mommy will change you as soon as
she gets finished making your ba-ba.'
        I put the formula in a pan full of water to warm and turned on the burner
on the stove. Then I took him by the hand back to his room and changed him.
He was mortified! He kept saying how sorry he was.. how he couldn't help
 it.
When I told him that Mommy's expect their babies to go poopy in the
 dydees,
he turned beet-red and quit talking. I took him back out to the living room
after I was finished and gave him his bottle.
        We watched tv until it was his bedtime when I took him into the nursery. I
wrapped the baby blanket around his shoulders, sat him on the rocking chair
beside me and let him suck his bottle while I read him stories from
Winnie-the-Poo. About half an hour later his eyelids started to droop and I
knew it was time for him to be tucked into his crib. (The melotonin I had
put in his formula was taking effect.) I put him in his crib with his bottle
still in hand and tucked the blanket lovingly around him. He whimpered a bit
as I closed the side, but quieted when he saw that I wasn't leaving
immediately. I stood at the side of his crib and watched until my baby boy
drifted off to sleep.
        That was the first day of Tommy's return to babyhood. As the weeks passed
he became accustomed to living in a nursery and using a diaper to pee and
poop. Mother found some companies that supply baby clothes in adult sizes
and we ordered an entire wardrobe. We outfitted him in soft fluffy fabrics
like brushed cotton and flannel to pamper his skin. Mother washed the
clothes repeatedly in fabric softener and Dreft to make them as comfortable
as possible before she let him wear them. We bought a complete set of custom
made baby sheets and matching mattress cover for his crib with a print of
cute rattles and toys on a baby blue background. Best of all, they carried
extra thick cloth diapers in his size and even had Gerber style, soft,
plastic baby pants to fit him. I put him in regular cloth diapers in the day
and extra thick diapers at night and only use disposables when we go out.
        Mother decided he should sound like a baby as well as look like one.
Several spankings from Nanna later, he had learned to ask for his ba-ba,
tell us he needed his dydee changed or wanted to go nite-nite. Within a
month, he was calling me 'Ma-ma' and jabbering baby-talk like a toddler.
Mother's plan to humiliate him never worked out. He actually seemed to
 enjoy
being treated like an infant! Without any prompting from us, his behavior
continued to regress until he acted like he was about twelve months old. If
he wet or pooped himself, he'd squall like a baby to be changed. When I
 went
in one morning to change his diaper and give him his breakfast bottle, I
found he had bruised himself on the crib bars in his sleep. I knew then we
would have to put a bumper in his crib and begin watching him constantly to
keep him from accidentally hurting himself. We had made his life as soft and
comfortable as an infant's and he was losing the physical toughness that
comes with ordinary existence. I bought him soft sculpture baby toys and he
would play for hours in his playpen with them. He became docile and
extremely tractable; so much so the Mother and I couldn't bear the thought
of him behaving like he had before his change. At least we could keep his
messes confined to his playpen. The thought of potty-training him and
allowing him the freedom to ruin our lives again was unthinkable. It was far
easier to care for an adult baby than put up with his drinking and emotional
tirades. 
        I changed doctors after I found a female GP who was willing to see him. She
was surprised the first time I brought him in wearing rompers with a
prominent bulge in the rear and crotch areas. When she saw the baby blue
diaper bag I was carrying, she knew what he was wearing under his pants. I
told her he had started regressing after a long period of depression
following his job loss. I asked her to examine him to see if there was a
physical reason for his incontinence. She performed a cursory rectal exam
and tested his control over urination. She discovered he was completely
incontinent; the muscle tone in his anal sphincter was nearly absent and his
bladder control was nonexistent. Of course I knew his incontinence was
purely psychological, I had stopped giving him laxatives and diuretics after
the first few weeks had made him diaper dependent.
        She told me his incontinence wasn't physiological in origin, that
apparently he had regressed until he had the same bowel and bladder control
one would expect in a one-year-old. When the doctor turned her back on him
to make notes on his chart, he nonchalantly put his thumb in his mouth and
began sucking. He was so used to thumbsucking at home didn't even realize
 he
was doing it! When she turned back to talk to us and saw him industriously
sucking away, all her doubts about his competence were confirmed. A few
minutes later, he pooped on the bedpad he was sitting on. Apparently, the
anal massage she had given him during his exam had stimulated his bowels.
She began ignoring him with the condescending dismissal one usually reserves
for children who are too young to understand adult conversation. She gave me
guidance on the care and feeding of an adult baby and advised me to shave
his pubes daily to help keep his diaper area clean. Then she told me I
should schedule regular visits until his condition stabilized.
        I started taking him to the doctor for regular visits after Mother said
she'd help me with the doctor bills. The doctor treated him like he was
 just
another baby in for a checkup when I brought him in to see her. After the
first visit, the doctor quit speaking to him like he was an adult and
instead questioned me about how he was doing. She even had her nurse remove
his diaper and use a rectal thermometer to get his temperature for his
chart. Then they'd sit him down stark naked on a bedpad protected exam
 table
and examine him while I stood at his side and held his hand. If the cold
stethoscope made him whimper, I'd put a Binkie in his mouth to keep him
quiet while she listened to his chest. She was particularly concerned about
his lack of exercise and the rapid weight gains he had experienced while
under her care. She put him on a special weight-reduction regimen and
questioned me about his eating habits and diet every time we visited. When
she was finished, she'd pat his knee and tell him what a good baby he'd
been. Then she'd leave to let her nurse and me put him in a fresh diaper
 and
redress him. She was a enormous help later when she testified about his
medical condition in court.
        Mother and I have decided to let him stay as he is; a twelve-month-old
personality inhabiting an adult body. I got tired of shaving him and Mother
found a discrete electrolysis technician to completely remove his body hair.
He doesn't look like the man I married anymore; his denuded skin has
 become
velvety soft from the daily application of baby lotion after his bubble
bath, his cheek muscles have enlarged from the constant sucking and his
added weight gives him the appearance of a giant toddler. The baby oil and
powder I put on him after every diaper change have even made him smell like
a baby!
        I know my mother didn't intend for Tommy to regress the way he did, but
 she
and I have agreed that the change in Tommy was the best resolution to our
problem. Mother thinks he makes an adorable baby and I've gotten used to
 the
idea of an infant husband. We've explained to all our friends that Tommy
 has
had a mental breakdown and is considered untreatable. They bring their
babies over on weekends and while we drink coffee and talk, Tommy and all
the other babies crawl on the floor and play. Everyone is enchanted with
Tommy. A couple of my friends even volunteered to babysit him for us while
my Mother and I go out shopping. We've left him with them  a few times
 when
it was impossible to take Tommy, but they really don't have the equipment
 to
properly manage him. We're looking for a permanent babysitter to watch him
for us at the ranch. The girl down the road is putting herself through
college and has asked on several occasions if we would be interested in
hiring her to babysit him.
        My sex life has certainly improved since he stopped drinking; his sexual
response is far healthier. I'm not sure the poor thing knows what's
happening when I mount him to make love, but he does seem  to enjoy having
an orgasm. Tommy's main interest in sleeping with me seems to be sucking
 my
titties. He has become utterly fascinated with them and is constantly trying
to touch them. His health improved with the change in diet, although he's
had several episodes of diaper rash. His doctor thinks that these episodes
will become less frequent as his body adjusts to his new environment.
        Our lives together have settled down into a happy routine. Mother babysits
him in the mornings while I work and in the evening I take care of him. I
think Mother would rather have a big baby for a son-in-law than a lazy drunk
living under her roof.
        A few months ago, I asked the courts for guardianship of Tommy. Of course
he had to be present at the hearing to determine his competency. He sat
there beside me, his diapers bulging under his snap-bottomed pants for
everyone in the court to see. He drooled and sucked his thumb while his
doctor testified about his medical condition. When he pooped in his diaper,
his incontinence became obvious to everyone. The courtroom positively
reeked. After the testimony was given, the Judge explained to Tommy in words
even a child could understand what the hearing was about and how a ruling of
incompetence would affect him. The Judge then asked Tommy if he had anything
to say in his behalf. Tommy looked confused, then turned to me, pointed and
said, 'Ma-ma!'
        That produced sniggers from the attorneys in the courtroom and a somber
look from the Judge. He quickly ruled that Tommy was mentally incompetent
and unlikely to recover his faculties. The Judge made him a ward of the
court, then granted me full guardianship of Tommy. That was the end of it.
Under the law, his status has been reduced to that of a child and I am
acting as his parent. In short, the state considers me to be his mommy!
        We're all happy now. I gave away all Tommy's 'adult' clothes to the
Salvation Army; he won't be needing them again. Tommy's geriatric
 feeding
chair broke in November and we had to replace it. I wasn't upset about it,
it was used when we got it and wasn't in very good shape. I replaced it
 last
Christmas with an adult-sized wooden high chair from one of the companies
where we buy his clothes. Tommy loves the picture of the bunnies that's
painted on the back of the chair. Mother has told me that as far as she's
concerned, she considers him to be her baby grandson rather than her
son-in-law. She simply dotes on her darling, baby grandchild.
        I found out that I had a fibrous cyst and would never be able to conceive.
I was sad at first, but then I realized that it's for the best. I love
Tommy, but I don't think I'd be able to take care of him and a new baby
 too!
Not and still keep my job. We dress Tommy up and take him everywhere in his
baby clothes. No one thinks anything of his behavior when they see him
outside of the house; it's a small town and everyone knows about my
'mentally ill' husband. Mother and I take him for walks in the park
 every
weekend in the giant stroller she bought for him last Christmas. He gurgles
and coos at the birds and jabbers in delight at the squirrels' antics.
Tommy's such a terribly sweet baby!    
                                    Finis